Cradle in the Dark
---
Elena hadn't slept well.
The dream lingered.
It wasn't frightening—no monsters, no screams. But the presence in the shadows, the heavy footsteps behind her, the weight of knowing someone followed without ever speaking—it clung to her like smoke.
And yet, for the first time, she didn't wake in fear.
She woke... wanting.
Wanting him there.
Wanting him to speak.
Wanting to understand.
The notebook still lay open beside her bed. Her scribbled words, written in sleep, now echoed louder in daylight.
> I don't want you to stay away anymore.
But I'm afraid of what that means.
She stared at it, heart heavy.
Then she folded the page, closing the cover gently. Her mind made a quiet decision.
Today… she would register for antenatal care.
Even if he never came back. Even if she had to do it all alone.
She could feel her child inside her now—not movement, not kicks, not yet. But a presence. A weight. A future.
Her future.
And it deserved more than silence.
---
The clinic wasn't far.
She chose the second name on the list he'd left—the one with the soft blue circle around it. Her fingers had hovered over the name for two days. Now, as she approached the glass building, her breath caught.
It wasn't fancy.
But it was clean. Calm. Safe.
She whispered softly, "Thank you," to the wind. She didn't know if he heard. But she wanted him to.
Inside, the receptionist smiled warmly. "First time?"
Elena nodded, unsure what to say.
The woman handed her a clipboard. "Take your time. You'll meet our midwife today for a basic check and scan. Is the father coming?"
Elena's heart skipped.
She hesitated, then whispered, "No."
The woman didn't press.
---
Luca watched from across the street.
He stood by a bakery, pretending to study the window display, though his eyes never left the glass doors of the clinic.
When she walked in, shoulders tense, hair pulled back in a low, careful bun, his chest ached.
She was doing it.
Alone.
Because of him.
He could have stood beside her. He could have held her hand during the scan. Could have kissed her forehead when the heartbeat played through the speakers.
But he hadn't earned that right.
He watched as she walked out an hour later, holding a small printed sonogram in her hands.
She stopped at the curb. Just stood there.
The image trembled in her hands.
She smiled.
It was small—barely there. More sad than joyful.
But it was real.
Luca's fingers dug into his coat pocket.
The second gift was already in his hand.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the sky turned honey-gold, Elena arrived home to find something at her door.
This time, it wasn't wrapped.
It was a box. Flat. Velvet.
She froze.
Her name wasn't written on it—but she knew.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the lid.
Inside lay a silver frame.
Small. Delicate.
With the words engraved in soft cursive:
> For the first picture that ever mattered.
She gasped.
Behind the glass, her sonogram had already been placed inside.
Her knees weakened.
She dropped to the floor, hand over her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks.
He had seen it.
He had followed her.
And he had touched something so intimate, so deeply personal, that it felt like he had reached into her chest and wrapped his fingers around her heart.
She didn't cry from fear this time.
She cried because it hurt to want someone who refused to speak.
Someone who haunted her with gifts instead of words.
Someone she couldn't stop thinking about.
---
That night, she placed the frame beside her bed.
It glowed faintly in the moonlight, silver catching the soft light through the curtains.
She stared at it until her eyes blurred.
Then she whispered into the darkness, "Luca."
It was the first time she'd said his name out loud in weeks.
And it made something inside her unravel.
---
Luca didn't sleep.
He stood across the street for hours, watching the faint light in her room. Watching the silhouette of her body as she moved. Watching her press her hand to the sonogram frame. Watching her talk to someone—maybe herself. Maybe the baby.
Maybe him.
He would never forget the way she smiled in that moment. Soft. Sad. Almost forgiving.
It broke him.
And healed him.
All at once.
---
The next day, she came home to another envelope.
This time, there was a note.
Not handwritten—typed. Carefully cut.
> If it's a girl, will you still name her Aria?
Elena's heart stopped.
She looked up and down the hallway.
No one.
She turned the note over. Blank.
Then, for some reason she couldn't explain, she smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't happy.
But it was real.
And it was the first time she'd smiled without pain.
---
Later that week, she bought baby clothes.
Just one outfit. Soft pink.
She didn't tell anyone.
She folded it carefully and placed it inside her drawer, underneath her sweaters.
A secret between her and him.
And the child they had created.
---
Luca sat in his apartment that night, lights off, holding a small wooden rattle.
Hand-carved.
Old.
His mother had once told him it belonged to his grandfather.
He hadn't planned to keep it.
But now… it had meaning again.
He placed it beside a small notebook filled with scribbled ideas:
A name.
A lullaby.
Recipes he could cook when she craved strange things.
Things to say when the baby cried.
He didn't know if he'd ever say them.
But he wrote them anyway.
Because if he couldn't love her out loud…
He would love her in silence.
Every single day.
---